


A Handful of Dust

by Phoenix_Massing



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Rare Pairings, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Massing/pseuds/Phoenix_Massing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Corypheus defeated and the Inquisition successful, Ioelle Lavellan finds herself at loose ends after the disappearance of one elven apostate. The mark on her hand grows with each passing day, as does the unrest among the Orlesian nobility. The whirlwind of life threatens to overwhelm her, until a certain traveling warrior with lyrium tattoos makes a stopover at Skyhold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is written in conjunction with a beta. I do not own Dragon Age, or Fenris...but one can wish, right?

Her eyelids were burning.

Somewhere in the Inquisitor's quarters, the thick shades had been drawn, turning the dark into brilliant red through Ioelle's sleep-laden eyes. The elf pulled a blanket further over her head and muttered a husky curse in Dalish. 

"Tut, tut," a singsong voice trilled over the sound of heels clicking on flagstone flooring. More shades were thrown open, brightening the light so it streamed through even the thick fabric of Ioelle's blanket cocoon. "You need to get up and get out, Inquisitor. There are many things to be done."

Said inquisitor rolled her eyes without opening them, grinding her face into a pillow and stifling a groan. Josephine's staccato footsteps were an icepick into to her already throbbing head - having lead Bull and Sera in a bawdy drinking game the night before and the after effects were slow and brutal to wear off. She had been languishing in bed since the first threads of morning light lit the mountains in a soft pink glow, having stumbled up the stairs and quite literally flopped horizontal on top of the bedding and succumbed to sleep.

"Josie," Ioelle muttered into her pillow. "Go away, please."

The Ambassador chuckled attractively and pulled the bedding off the prone elf with surprising violence for someone dressed head to toe in ruffles. Ioelle tucked her knees to her chest and hissed as cold air hit her naked body. She nearly shrieked with rage when Josephine hoisted her up, frigid flagstone meeting bare feet in the most unpleasant of ways. Still refusing to open her eyes, Ioelle cursed all the way as warm, soft hands lead her to a steaming tub of water scented with a myriad of expensive oils no doubt hand-picked by Josie. The elf wrinkled her nose at the cloying fragrance while bumping already bruised shins into the side of the bath.

"Today we will have a proper war council," Josephine said, forcing Ioelle's slight frame into the scalding water. "While there is technically no war to be had, there are many loose ends we need to discuss. We have several visiting dignitaries that require your attention, a plan needs to be developed for refugees in the Emerald Graves, contact needs to be made with several of the remaining Dalish clans -"

"Enough!" Ioelle snapped as a servant dumped hot water over her head. She sputtered, swiping at her eyes and growling. "Enough," she repeated, quieter, with less force, finally cracking her eyes open to fix Josephine with a heated stare. "I will do what is required, Josie. Just give me time to wake up...and sober up."

The Ambassador smiled warmly, brushing the inquisitor's outburst aside. The months following Corypheus' defeat had worn on the elf in ways none of the advisors could imagine. Cullen lacked the finesse required to deal with the temperamental, hungover spitfire. Leliana tended to deal with Ioelle in a hands-off manner, as was her way. Cassandra was fulfilling her Divine duties. That left Josephine, gentle when she needed to be, a relentless force when the Inquisitor needed a firmer hand. Despite the elf's normally rude manner, the two were close, or as close as Ioelle would allow. 

"Excellent, Inquisitor," Josephine purred, gathering up her writing supplies from the desk. "I will see you in the war room within the hour."

Ioelle pushed her lip out in an unattractive pout and gritted her teeth. "Yes. I will be there."

~~~

A fire was roaring in the war room as Ioelle pushed through the doors. She inhaled the warm, earthen smell and curled her toes in the shemlen hunting boots. The inquisitor fought hard to retain her dalish roots among all of the human customs. To her credit, the Ambassador had long since given up trying to force the elf into human clothing, offering instead leg wraps made from nugskin, soft linen tunics, and jackets made from the hide of a great bear. Ioelle would hang each article of clothing in front of the quarters in her hearth, tossing in sprigs of pine and elfroot into the flames, ridding them of any lingering perfume. Her bedding, fresh from the laundry, would hang on her balcony for days before she would place it back on her bed. She stuffed her pillows with leather pouches of aspen leaves and earth, much to the dismay of her servants. The kitchen elves had taken a certain liking to her, sending up whole roast hens served on a bed of tuber roots and potatoes, spreads of soft halla cheese, fruits from the warmer climates, all which Ioelle would eat with her hands and a dagger.

Cullen was leaning against the table, one hand on the hilt of his sword, a frown creasing his brow. The headaches that plagued him for most of the past year had greatly subsided, the residual lyrium making its way slowly out of his system. Despite his awkwardness, Ioelle enjoyed the man's steadfast dedication to the Inquisition's forces, and his obvious acceptance of her being an elf. The ex-templar had scared her at first - the lyrium singing through his veins making her head swim in pain. Something _he_ helped her with, until his sudden departure. 

Ioelle curled her lip at the thought and quashed it immediately, studying Leliana, who lurked next to the hearth, hooded face shadowed. The spymaster was a woman after the inquisitor's own heart - calculating, quiet and ruthless when needed. 

"Inquisitor," Josephine said with a smile, standing at the ready. "We have much to discuss, so if you would -" she gestured to the table with her quill. Ioelle complied, stepping up to the table and pressing her hands to the wooden surface. 

"The most pressing matter is what to do with the recent influx of mage refugees migrating from their various camps back to their appropriate circles," Josephine began. "Divine Victoria -" Ioelle rolled her eyes at the title. Cassandra would always be Cassandra to her. "- has assured me that all mages will have a place in a safe, secure circle. We have, of course, opened Skyhold as a way-stop for those who wish to rest and recuperate here, which means we need to continue to secure our supply lines. This means making our presence known." Josephine looked at her over her clipboard and frowned. "However, this pilgrimage means that any lingering slavers may be targeting the traveling mages."

Ioelle's brow twitched at the mention of slavers. She had allied with the mages to free them from the slavey of Alexius. Knowing they would be targeted as they traveled back to the circles was enough to boil her blood. 

"Commander Cullen will be sending contingents of soldiers to secure various camps for the refugees. It would be good if the Inquisitor could spare the time and visit several of these camps for a moral boost. The mages remain one of our most trusted allies - I would hate for them to think the Inquisition was to be done with them."

"Of course we will visit the camps," Ioelle said, raising her chin. "The mages must be protected at all costs. I will see to it personally."

Josephine nodded and scratched at the parchment with her quill. "Excellent. I will notify Master Dennett that you plan on traveling within the next fortnight. Now, we have several visiting dignitaries, several of which have requested audience with you. We have a strong allegiance with Fereldan, thanks to Commander Cullen and your allegiance to King Alistair." Josephine paused to smile at Cullen. "However, Varric has pointed out that we still need a stronger presence in Kirkwall, Ostwick, and Starkhaven. While I normally would leave such matters to Varric himself, he has mentioned that we may find him a bit...preoccupied with his new project of rebuilding aforementioned cities. He promised to make as many contacts as possible while there, which have proved...fruitful. Master Thethras has sent word ahead that two dignitaries will be arriving within the month - Bann Reginalda of White River, distant relative to the king, and an..." Josephine ruffled her many pages of paper. "Ambassador Fenris, associate of Serah Hawke." 

Ioelle's eyebrows rose to her hairline. Both Varric and the Champion had mentioned Fenris in passing, and neither seemed particularly pleased to speak the syllables of his name. From the other side of the table, Cullen cleared his throat. 

"Fenris as in the elf that was witness to the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry?" the commander said, folding both hands onto the pommel of his sword. 

"You know him?" Ioelle asked. The Commander rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture she recognized as embarrassment. 

"I know...of him," Cullen replied reluctantly. "Last I heard he was moping up slavers on the border of the Tevinter Imperium. Somewhere near Minrathous, I would guess." His eyes shifted to Ioelle. "He has rather rare talent, courtesy of lyrium markings." 

The elf set her jaw. Out of the corner of her eye, Leliana shuffled slightly in her shadowy corner. The spymaster had been attempting to track down a certain elf apostate for close to two months, with no success. Unfortunately for them all, Solas had been the only one capable of even beginning to explain Ioelle's unnatural reaction to both lyrium and her late-blossoming magical talents, the later of which only he knew about. She tightened her right hand into a fist, feeling the anchor pulse against her palm with a low, throbbing pain. 

"He will be here within a fortnight," Josephine continued, steadfast as ever. "Varric has promised that he has important information regarding not only slaver movements but also some of the more isolated dalish clans. The Bann wishes to speak of the Inquisition's plans to help rebuild Fereldan's outlying lands. I will have an itinerary drawn up for you by tomorrow morning." 

Josephine continued, but Ioelle was only half listening. In the months since Solas' disappearance, and Corypheus' defeat, she had struggled with her purpose within the Inquisition. Skyhold had gradually emptied, refugees and workers alike returning to their various homelands. To most, it seemed as if their mission had been accomplished. Ioelle, however, had no clan to return to, and no where to call home. She had agreed to remain as Inquisitor, now more of a headless title more than anything. For the most part, she was using her influence to assist not only the mages and the dalish, but also to preserve the various bits of history they had uncovered over the continent. 

But the announcement of such an absurd dignitary, one whose mission directly matched her own - Ioelle smirked. Skyhold had been accommodating, if not a little lacking in the entertainment department. The promise of interesting company, along with getting out of the damned castle, was enough to make her curl her toes in happiness. 


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a tedious ride from the Hinterlands. Ioelle always hated the flatlands, the way the landscape spread out on either side of her like a dull canvas. She yearned for the trees, the smell of rich loam and mosses growing like capes around the trunks of aspens. Ferelden's core was harsh and cold and bit at her face, causing her golden skin to darken and blush a deep red around her nose and cheeks. The sun was just as unforgiving, spattering her face and chest with dark freckles and a rough sunburn that lasted for days. Growing up in the diffused light that filtered between the forest canopy, her complexion lacked the natural protection Ferelden shems possessed.

And so, as she, Bull and Sera rode their weary mounts through the looming gate of Skyhold, the inquisitor rubbed at her peeling nose with frustration. It had been a five day ride to the encampment, five days shuffling refugees and bolstering morale, and another five days back. Traveling was well and all, but Ioelle had been fighting sobriety and losing. A concealed flask only hid so much, and Bull preferred to do his drinking in celebration rather than with his dawn meal, supper and dinner. Her head throbbed with every step her mount took, and as she slid from the hart her entire body resonated jarringly as booted feet hit flagstones. For the past three days she had been dreaming about a hot bath and multiple bottles of wine, but her dream was crushed the moment she spotted Josephine, golden sleeves glinting in the afternoon light, striding towards her.

"Inquisitor," the ambassador trilled, expertly concealing the obvious distaste at the sight of her Inquisitor, windblown and sunburnt, wearing two weeks worth of Hinterland dust. "I am glad to see you have returned safely. There are several matters to discuss, as well as the visiting dignitaries -"

"Josie," Ioelle said, sliding down from her mount and pinching the bridge of her nose with a gloved hand. "Give me an hour to bathe and change. I will meet you in your office, and you can brief me then."

Josephine smiled and gave a curt nod before turning to Bull and accosting him about the latest Qunari movements. Ioelle slunk away, giving Sera a wink and a flashing her a quick flick of her fingers. The other elf would know what she meant, and a flagon of ale would be waiting for the inquisitor at the tavern within the hour.

With the promise of cold alcohol and a boisterous atmosphere, Ioelle was washed and dressed within the half hour, slinking out onto the battlements and clambering her way down onto the roof of the tavern to avoid the inevitable crossing of paths with a certain ambassador she was shirking. This had become her routine - so much so the guards posted to the cold spine-like ramparts of Skyhold barely batted an eye at their inquisitor scrambling across the heights with a feline-esque grace befitting of her culture. It took only a few minutes for her to make it from her quarters and into the briney warmth of the tavern, but she could feel the thin air whipping her already sun-pinked cheeks into a ruddy mess of splotches. The Frostbacks were unforgiving to a creature accustomed to warmer climates. The elf welcomed the smokey haze that hung lazily in the Herald's Rest - a name that was both annoying and apt to Ioelle. Across a crush of rowdy patrons she spotted Sera's yellow hair peaking over a large flagon of what the inquisitor hoped was a very strong ale. The elf sidled up to her companion with a slight nod and promptly tucked into her drink with the gusto of a starving man.

"Ye snuck out again?" Sera asked and chortled at Ioelle's answered nod from inside the depths of her mug. "Frilly Bits is gonna hang ye by yer toes."

Tongue and aching head quelled by alcohol, the inquisitor felt her mood thawing for the first time in a fortnight.

"There is nothing of dire need that I am wanted for at the moment, I am sure," Ioelle said, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve. "'Sides," she belched into her cup. "Bull has Josie occupied with Qunari political shite and the like."

"More ale for us!" Sera slammed her mug against Ioelle's, slopping foam over their table.

Ioelle had the distinct feeling that Sera drank more for a feeling of companionship than actual consumption of alcohol, but the city elf kept up with her and Bull on their worst nights nonetheless. With Dorian back in Tevinter and Bull ostracized from the ben hassrath, he hadn't much to do in the way of work other than accompany Ioelle as her most trusted bodyguard, a position which the inquisition still paid him handsomely for, although Ioelle was sure he would do it just as happily without pay. She could tell he missed the Altus ferociously, and as far as she knew, Bull had never entered into a constant, monogamous relationship before becoming involved with Dorian. And so with the departure of the Inquisition's elvhen apostate, Ioelle and Bull struck up a somewhat sorrowful routine of fighting the last of the rebels, bickering and drinking, the former fastidiously avoiding her duties and the latter trying his best not to wallow.

 

* * *

 

The journey to Skyhold was a longer ride than Fenris was used to. As his armored feet hit the ground with a resonating ache that shot up his spine, he silently cursed the thin air that whipped a few stray strands of hair from the leather that bound it on the back of his head. It was colder even than his consulate has warned him, the penetrating type of cold that was sharp on the skin and chilled to the bones. A fortnight of riding from the agreeable climate of Minrathous to the sharp and unforgiving Frostback's had the male elf's temper bubbling and barely contained - the type of annoyance he had been able to stave off the past few years. His demeanor had evened out to a pallor of its former glory. No longer barely controlled and ready to snap, but a more sustained simmer of controlled brooding that made his cadre flighty and nervous. This development of control had somehow reached the ears of the dwarf Varric Tethras - Viscount Tethras, Fenris mentally corrected with a scoff - and had lead to this journey as an Ambassador.

The elf gritted his teeth as he handed the reins of his mount to a stablehand. A title he had taken most unwillingly, especially after Varric had mentioned rather tactlessly that Hawke had refused it. It pained Fenris to think of the Champion, like an old bone break achy from the damp, settled right in the middle of his chest. His eyes drifted down to his gauntlets, burnished with frost, and the faded red fabric looped around his right forearm. A slash of bright against the black of his armor. It was a part of his routine now - the underclothes and the pieces of armor and the red cloth wrapped artlessly around his gauntlet. The ache had settled a kind of arthritic pain, but it was still there, five years after Fenris had left Kirkwall, an unwanted passenger.

The abomination mage had seen it, that night Fenris stumbled into their hiding spot, half starved and half dying from blood loss. Fenris knew the abomination mage had seen the sheets the fabric was torn from as he slunk into Hawke's bed.

But, as was his wont now, Fenris pushed the past into the recesses of his mind and focused instead on the quickest way to warm his frozen body. The elf had grown fond of a certain type of Fereldan ale, brewed with cinnamon and a spice that he had no name for, and served hot with citrus fruit. The very thought of it made his mouth water.

"Stablehand," he said, turning to the boy. "Where is the tavern."

The stablehand peeked up at him warily from around the neck of his mount. "Around the corner that way, ser. The Herald's Rest, ser."

Fenris pressed a silver into the boy’s hand and made his way to the tavern, weaving around a drunkard lying in a puddle of his own vomit near the door. An omen of sorts, Fenris mused, as he pushed the door open and welcomed the warm burst of air. He had been that drunk many times in his years, most of them in the death-riddled mansion that belonged to his former master. Wine had been his one true companion until Hawke - He shook his head irritably and growled under his breath. It had been almost five years since his involvement with the Champion. He was hundreds of miles from the pisshole that was Kirkwall, and Maker only knew how many miles he was from Hawke and her abomination. Instead, he was in a small and rowdy tavern, ordering a mulled ale and trying his best to not draw attention. It was an easy thing to blend in when most of the patrons were elbow deep in their cups.

He found a spot on a bench next to a group of elves and tugged the collar of his cloak up further, blocking some of their rambunctious noise. It had been a month’s ride to Skyhold from his previous outpost in Minrathous. He could only hazard a guess at how Varric had managed to find him, but Fenris had learned long ago not to underestimate the dwarf. And now, risen to the office of Viscount, there was little doubt in Fenris’ mind that going into hiding from Master Tethras would ever be an option. Trickles and whispers of rumors had reached his ears in the past few years - Fenris knew Varric had been a prisoner of Seeker Pentaghast’s, and an important part of the Inquisition. Trust the dwarf to become involved in that important of that adventure.

_“Kirkwall needs an Ambassador,”_ Varric’s letter read. _“The city is rebuilding, and it needs to be involved in the political comings and goings of Fereldan and Orlais. Josie has promised me that she’ll make sure you’re all set up and comfortable. Just do this for me while the Inquisition figures out its next move. I can’t be there, and you need to get in touch with humanity again.”_

To a point, the dwarf was not wrong. Fenris had been a nomad for two straight years, and the lack of complacency was taking its toll. While the sale of Denarius’ mansion had left him a sizeable sum of money (a sale that would not have happened if Hawke would not have been involved), and Varric promised the ambassador position would pay, Fenris’ armor and sword were showing their age. One of the first tasks he assigned himself was the commission of a new set as soon as he could set up an account with the treasury.

“Oi! “Snother elfy elf we ‘ave ‘ere!”

The warmth of the tavern and the ale that had settled in his belly made Fenris slower than usual to react to the harassment from his table mates. The elf closest to him, yellow hair shorn in choppy layers, was leaning into his space, large eyes glassy. She was little and _loud_ , as loud as her outfit, hiccuping every few seconds and swaying to the lute music. Fenris peered at her from the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, you!” she said, punctuating her statement with a slap to the table. “Nevah seen you aroun’ here. Ain’ tha’ righ’, Inky?”

The yellow-haired elf elbowed her neighbor, spilling ale onto the table and her own lap. The other elf rose indignantly, shaking ale off her tunic and frowning.

“Sera! That’s ale abuse and you know it!”

“Sorry, Inky!” Sera said with a sharp laugh. “I got distracted by this elfy elf’s good looks!”

“Inky” wobbled a bit as she stood in place, draining the last of her own mug before turning her attention to Fenris. In the dim tavern light, her hair was burnished gold, and she wore vallaslin darkly across her face. A face that had cheeks ruddy from drink and a nose that looked wind bitten and distinctly elvhen, the bridge curving gracefully from her brow down to the tip. Even without the blood writing, her aura placed her as one of the Dalish.

“I apologize for my friend’s intrusion on your patronizing of this fine establishment,” the fair-haired elf said, her eyes half-lidded in inebriation. “She really is not attracted to you, though, you know. She prefers women.”

Sera smacked her friend roughly on the shoulder, causing the fair-haired elf to tip precariously on her unsteady feet. The smallest of sighs escaped through Fenris’ pursed lips.

“Yeah? Well, Inky here prefers baldy men, so yer outta luck!”

The other elf gasped, an ale-soaked hand going to her throat and glassy eyes widening. Sera clapped a palm to her forehead. “Elle, I am...shite, shite, me an’ my big mouf. I’m sorry! I didn’ mean it! I forgot.”

Elle pinched the bridge of her nose and turned a hooded eye to Sera. “Buy me another drink and I will try to forget this most unforgivable transgression.”

Sera snapped a sloppy salute and stood on the bench, raising a hand and waving it in the air. “OI! Bar keep!”

Fenris leaned his head away from Sera’s voice, rolling his eyes. His mug was still warm and not nearly half gone, and he had been enjoying the warmth of being indoors for the first time in a month. Unfortunately, he reminded himself, a tavern was not a quiet place to enjoy a drink. A busty waitress sidled over with new of ale, much to Sera’s titillation. The yellow-hair elf grabbed the them.

Unfortunately, in her drunken state, juggling two overflowing flagons proved to be too much, and one fell from the waitress’ hand onto Fenris’ shoulders, seeping ice cold down the neck of his cloak.

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Fenris exclaimed, pushing off of the table and standing, dripping in ale. Sera and Elle were staring at him with wide eyes, the former grinning and the latter looking flustered. The waitress flitted around him, offering a dirty towel. He waved her off and unhooked the clasp of his cloak, whipping it off in frustration. The fabric was threadbare, allowing the ale to soak through and run in rivulets down the neck of his armor.

“I am so very sorry!” Elle was up on her unsteady legs again, grabbing another dirty towel and rushing to help the waitress. “We just got back from a trip and we played a few rounds of Wicked Grace and - creators!” she gasped softly as he slid his cloak off, using it to mop up the table around him. “Is that lyrium?”

Fenris paused his mopping to look at his bare upper arms, threaded with white brands - which he now noticed were glowing with the softest of light.

_Mage_ , he snarled in his head, and snapped his eyes to hers. The lyrium imbued in his skin thrummed, and Elle, dropping her dirty rag, clapped a hand over her mouth in what Fenris thought was surprise, until he heard the retching.

The fair-haired elf emptied the contents of her stomach onto Fenris’ lap and the table. Sera, having grabbed the full mug, yelped in surprise and stumbled backwards, knocking over several chairs in the process. The waitress, looking thoroughly finished with the events of the night, threw her hands up in disgust and walked away.

“ _Fasta vass!_ ” Fenris yelled, lip curling in disgust. “ _Vendehis_!” What are you? A demon sent to ruin my evening?” The fair-haired elf looked up through tear-filled eyes, hands still clamped across her mouth. Sera pushed past him and grabbed her friend by the arm, all but dragging her from the table.

“Ayup, ‘s time to turn in Inky!”

Fenris watched the pair stumble from the tavern, knocking over several more chairs before they made it to the door. The smell of bile and stale liquor wafted up from his person and he sighed, vehemently wishing he had stayed in Minrathous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who are curious, Ioelle's name is pronounced ih-yo-yell (emphasis on the "yo").


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided to split this chapter into two parts.   
> also thank you to anyone who has read and kudos, ect. yay rare pairs

Ioelle's head swam, bleeding the shafts of light together in an array of gold and dust motes. She pulled the hood of her cloak further over her eyes. The War Room was always a bit on the warm side, and a bit on the musty side, and with her ever-keen sense of smell heightened by her hangover, she leaned a shaky hand on the table, feeling a cold sweat break out along her back and forehead. Despite emptying the contents of her stomach onto a bar patron the night before, Ioelle's body protested at her ale habit, once again picked up where she had left it weeks before. 

_You will not be this young forever_ , a snide voice at the back of her head chided - which sounded oddly like his voice. The lilt at the end of the vowels, the gravelly way he had pronounced each syllable with a subtle flourish, as if the end of each word was being lovingly calligraphed onto a sheet of vellum. Ioelle had grown accustomed to ignoring the voice in her head, the one that told her of her impending doom each time the anchor in her hand pulsed green, each time the bottom of a flagon of ale failed to hold any answers for her, each time she stole from the castle to feel the night dance against her skin. 

She watched as Cullen and Leliana maneuvered the Inquisition’s obelisk from the Arbor Wilds to an area of the map she had never examined before. The piece was iron, crafted so delicately and with such care that it almost pained her to know its only purpose was to be the marker of her continuously failing search - a beautiful reminder of just another aspect of her flawed prowess. 

A line had etched itself into the Commander’s forehead, and it seemed to deepen every time they discussed the state of the Inquisition. Their supply lines. The plight of the mages. Thousands of refugees that were still pouring through Fereldan, seeking guidance and peace amid the wreckage of the war. The blonde man sighed and passed a hand across his face. Cullen’s blood no longer sang to Ioelle, but a pulse of despair, dark and so palpable she could almost taste it on her tongue, hung over his shoulders like the fur of his mantle. 

Ioelle supposed the man was handsome, in that rugged Fereldan manner that many women found charming. Shem masculinity had always intrigued her in ways that were inappropriate if spoken aloud - she enjoyed the figure they cut, the inverted triangle of wide shoulders and narrowing hips. Many elvhen men had a distinctive lack of facial hair that she found a bit disappointing. On days where Cullen had failed to take a straight razor to the smattering of hairs across his jaw, Ioelle almost ached to run her hand across it - purely for the sake of comparing the texture to her own shorn scalp. Taking a shem to bed - specifically a Fereldan shem - would be much like taking a bear to bed, in her mind. Cullen dwarfed her by over a foot, a hulking mass of sinewy muscle and a set of honey-amber eyes that were so sunken they were often lost in the shadow of his brow. Dorian, with his lean stature built from years of swinging a staff, was built more like the elvhen of the lost days. 

The corner of Ioelle’s mouth curved up at the thought of the Tevinter. He had taught her to speak with the dead. Hollow shadows of poor souls that pressed up against the Veil, scrabbling for the warmth that was Life, slipping past the misty bonds that kept them in the Fade to do her bidding. He had helped her snap the Fade around her blade, wrapping it in magic until it shone with a deadly light. The first time she killed a man with that spelled blade, her mouth had tasted metallic as she felt the life flee from him, bleeding out onto her hands as his essence crawled up her blade, only to be thrown into the Fade. Dorian had helped her, when he had failed, left her in a twisted mess. Dorian had kept her secret, helping her grow and nurture her latent magical talent. But his way of teaching magic had a sophisticated air to it - magic to serve man, twisting it to bend to her will. He had shown her how the elements could work with her, as her ally. Fire leaving her palms like she was a spirit-caller, beckoning. Ice that froze foes in their tracks, making them brittle. And lightning, glorious and wild and destructive, cracking the air with all the heat of a flame but the power of a summer storm. 

Ioelle felt her pulse pound behind her eyes as she leaned against the war table. Her tongue was thick and heavy as she listened to Leliana explain the latest Qunari movements. Damned if I haven’t been this hungover in a while, Ioelle thought grimly. Briefly, she wondered if a build-up of magic could make her feel this ill. She had abandoned using it, feeling helpless and so alone after Dorian had returned to Tevinter. Alone and afraid, plagued by dreams that spun her into a panic, only to be numbed by ale. 

“Our search for Solas has come to an abrupt halt,” Leliana said with an air of annoyance. Pain lanced through Ioelle like a knife at the name. “While my agents had followed his trailed into the Arbor Wilds, they have not been able to find anything as far as tangible evidence that he is still there.”

Ioelle ground her teeth, fighting back the bile threatening to rise at the back of her throat. “Surely they have found something,” she said, wincing at the huskiness of her voice. “A camp, a bedroll, his creators-damned sleeping body?”

Josie leaned over the table, a shaft of light catching the golden fabric of her blouse and sending a trillion little glimmers of sun dancing across the surface of the map. “It would appear that he has been avoiding entering the Fade in such a manner, in an effort to elude our scouts.”

Cullen snorted, resting both hands on the pommel of his sword, like a lion stretching after a meal. The dim light burnished his gold hair into a tangle of unkempt gossamer, giving him the appearance of having a halo. Ioelle heard him praying in the sept, the little anteroom off the garden, kneeling, head bowed at the foot of Andraste’s statue. The man was devout and fiercely loyal to his religion, in a way that almost made her jealous. Ioelle had stared into the face of Corypheus and no gods had saved her. No omnipotent being had intervened, nor had they sat on the throne at the obelisk of floating rock that the sundered Fade had shown her. As far as she was concerned, the only gods she worshipped were the blades of grass under her feet, and the air that she breathed.

“For an apostate of humble appearance but large in magical talent, I found it difficult to believe that your men have yet to find him, Leliana.” Cullen scowled at the iron marker, ornate and heavy on the map. 

“They have been asking the wrong people for direction, it seems,” Leliana countered, face shadowed by the hood of her own cloak. “We have made contact with several wandering Dalish clans in the area and nobody has even mentioned seeing -”

“Elven ruins, statues, large trees with hollow trunks, anything that is even remotely historical,” Ioelle said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s where he’ll rest. Even if he is not spending a considerable amount of his time in the Fade, he is not going to waste what little sleep he does get. That is his weakness, Leliana.” 

The spymaster leveled her with a look. “I have contacted several individuals regarding his peculiar affinity for transgressing the fade. I believe the Tevinters have a word for it -”

“ _Somniari,_ ” came a gravelly voice from next to the fireplace. Ioelle’s head snapped in the direction so quickly she almost lost her balance. Shrouded in an expensive-looking black cloak, a figure leaned against the mantle, arms crossed. Ioelle inwardly cursed herself. It had been a very long time that someone had been able to take her by surprise. I must be feeling my liquor more than usual, she thought, as a bead of cold sweat made its way down her spine. 

“Ah, yes, thank you, Fenris,” Josephine said, waving her quill. She eyed Ioelle with a look of disgust that only she could make appear polite. “Inquisitor, I have forgotten my manners. This is the Ambassador from Kirkwall.”

The figure shifted from out of the shadow, and Ioelle quietly gasped, a hand flying to her throat, her head snapping back and loosening the cloak’s hood to tumble to her shoulders. An elf, shock of white hair atop his head pulled back into a severe bun, sides shorn, dark olive skin contrasting sharply with it. A very aquiline nose, proud and graceful as it tied into his brow, reminiscent of the Elvhen, down to bright eyes and a build that could only be straight out of Arlathan. Broad, broad shoulders, not quite hidden behind the drape of the cloak, a sullen face and a strong chin graced by - creators - lyrium markings, swirling across his jaw and down his throat, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. Three perfect white circles graced his forehead, and Ioelle felt her heart stutter, mouth going dry. 

As if the room had swallowed her whole, blackness crept in, swirling in a violent maelstrom of haunting cold. She felt her mana, always pressing against the surface of her skin, expanding outward, pulsing in time with her quickened heartbeat. Somehow, she felt the stirrings of other sparks of light, dancing brightly along her aura, and a dim part of her mind realized her magic was pouring out around her like a flood-ruined dam, spilling into the room and pressing up against the walls where it crashed angrily, swirling in on itself. She felt herself fall to her knees, barely registering the crack of the flagstone as it hit her shins. A sharp, white-blue light began to pulse in time with her erratic heartbeat, and through blurry eyes she could see the elf - Fenris, a voice in her head whispered - standing directly across from her, fists balled at his sides and the lyrium etched into his skin a violent beacon of impossibly bright light. 

The first creeping tingle of electricity danced across her hands like the kiss of a lover, and as the element called to her, she did not fight the temptation to tamp down. She couldn’t tamp down on it. Magic poured from her, thickening the air in the room with the hot tang of ozone, crackling across the floor and swirling papers across the map. Somewhere, distantly, thunder clapped, and Ioelle felt the anchor flare to life as blackness consumed her.


End file.
